


Um... Meow?

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:14:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Omggg I love your fics!! They are really nice, I want to read more and more ~~ Could you maybe do an AU where Shaw or Root is half cat, and the other is her new owner?? If you want, of course. I've been craving more and more Root x Shaw fanfiction and I have lots of ideas but sadly I'm not really a writer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Um... Meow?

Things aren’t like they were before. Sure, there are cities with skyscrapers like fingers reaching for the clouds, and there are mountains that touch the stars at night. Yes, there are crystal rivers that are swallowed up by the open mouths of oceans, and there are skies that are sapphire at noon, ebony at night, and blazing with fire at each sun set and rise. People are the same- the Lucky Ones, at least.

But Sameen Shaw, an ex-marine and former agent of the government, was no such person. She could have been, but the expectations required to be one were against every moral she had- broke every rule she’d ever strung together.

She’d watched with glowering eyes and a defiant sneer her former colleagues passed through her vision as she walked- no, was yanked along by the restraints on her wrists and linked chains strung around her ankles- each looking at her solemnly. Some showed remorse in their eyes, others fear, and even more shimmered with pity. Shaw felt none of these things, her eyes reflected the only emotion she’d come to know: anger. And there was a Hell of a lot of it. Contempt shot like knives from her pupils, stabbing each man and woman in crisp suits with tight kept hair. People she’d known for years, strong agents and fierce fighters, standing like statues with lips sewn shut.  _Cowards._

The sound of rustling chains filled her ears, as she was not alone. Others, from different departments, were bound before and behind her; a long chain of Defiants. She was taken in a large, prison like van to what appeared to be an insane asylum straight from the nightmares of children. She was poked and prodded and tested. She was analyzed from head to toe; her eyes and her nails and her skin and her hair.

She was Turned.

 

* * *

 

 

“Based on her charts, I believe it would best be suited as a Felis Domesticus.”

Shaw’s eyes smoldered past the bars of her over-sized dog crate, fingers wrapped around the bars as she listened in on the men in white lab coats just around the corner. She isn’t sure what the words mean, but can only assume it has something to do with her Turning.

“But its ferocity would have to put it in Felis Lynx,” another protests, finger smacking against a clipboard, undoubtedly pointing to prove a point.  _It,_  Shaw thinks with a loathing growl.  _They called me ‘it.’_

“But its  _eyes_!” Yells the first.

“Its  _agility_!” Spits the other. Shaw presses her ear to the edge of the crate, ignoring the icy coldness of the metal to her skin; she’d been through worse.  _I’m living in Hell, for God’s sake_ , she mutters to herself.

“Jesse, Clyde.” A smooth voice interrupts their squabble, and Shaw recognizes it instantly. Doctor O'Hara. She can picture his slicked, black hair and inquisitive green eyes. _He’s nice_ , Shaw thinks with a bitter laugh, _for a madman_. “Defiant 5607 should be in the Felidae family, I agree, but have either of you considered Felis concolor?”  _Defiant 5607_ , Shaw broods,  _so kind of you to address me by name._

She peers down at her arm, seeing the number stamped into her flesh. Any of the other Defiants had a set of tags around their necks, or a name tag stapled to their hospital shirts. Shaw, however, never ceased to snap off the necklaces, using their thin chain as a weapon, or to scratch the numbers from the shirts, nails spelling out one scraggly word: SHAW. They’d since kept her nails trimmed short, and periodically pressed a fresh stamp to her skin.

There is mumbling and thoughtful murmuring from around the corner, and then all is silent. A moment later, Dr. O'Hara steps around the corner, crisp white smile on his chiseled features. Shaw keeps her face fierce, short nails pressing deep into her palms enough to hurt, teeth clenched so hard together her jaw aches, muscles coiled to the point of snapping.

He steps forward until he is nothing but khaki pant legs and expensive Bontonis, then kneels down to see Shaw eye-to-eye. There is something in his, a pang of guilt, but an overall sense of excitement. Encouraging her before his lips even part.  _This is it_ , they say,  _this is finally it._

“We’ve been scanning over your records for some time,” he tells her in a conversational tone. As if I’m not in a dog crate, Shaw fumes silently. “You’re quite the rarity. Anyway, I think we’ve finally found the right fit for you.”

“Why? Because human being is just  _so_ last week?” Shaw deadpans, and his face pales slightly. He gives a cough, continuing earnestly.

“You should be excited, 560- er, Shaw- for this. You’re going to be better than human, you’re going to be a-”

“Lab rat?” Shaw interjects accusingly, and he presses his lips together with a sigh.

“You might not like it now, but trust me, when this is over, you’ll thank me.” Shaw’s lips purse, and her eyes narrow.

“Not likely.” O'Hara, clapping his hands together, rises to his full height- a staggering six four- and beckons over a group of five wheeling a gurney. The doctor opens the cage, and instantly ten hands push through. Shaw presses herself to the back of the cage, eyes livid, calculating the possibilities. One hand grabs a handful of hair, and she instantly brings her hands to his wrist, turning it until she hears a sickening crunch. The hand retreats, but she is still outnumbered. Soon enough, she is torn from the crate, pushed onto the gurney, and strapped thoroughly down. Shaw thrashes about, teeth bared.

“Sit back,” a syrup-sweet voice coos falsely, and Shaw stops, eyes snapping to attention. She sees the blonde hair swept up into a tight bun, brown eyes like poisonous mud, and a disgusting smile on her otherwise pretty face. The woman takes a cleanly manicured hand and presses Shaw’s head down to rest on the pillow. “ _Relax_ , honey.”

“ _Bitch_ ,” Shaw spits at her, knowing the face: _Martine Rosseau_. Unlike Shaw, she’d stayed with the Lucky Ones, claiming a spot in one of Samaritan’s higher rankings. Why she was here, in this job- Shaw could only think of one reason.  _She wants to watch me burn._

Shaw’s wheeled past aisles of crates, all of varying sizes, stacked all the way to the ceiling in a tightly knit network of metal and concrete. People shout as she passes, shout anything they can. Some shout profanity at the people wheeling her away, others cheer for Shaw, cheer for her to keep strong. _Like I need your support,_  she thinks bitterly, this place turning her to hardened steel. Yet, she can’t help but smile.

Hysteric. Drunk with the spite and the knowledge that this is the end. _The Hell does it all matter anymore?_ She thinks with a laugh. She laughs hard and loud, enough to instill a fear deep within the four men surrounding her; Martine will not look her way.

She is wheeled into a white room that smells of disinfectant and blood. The lights are blinding, and there is a window at the far side of the room. Squinting hard, she can make out people on the other side.

 _Control._  Her boss for so many years, nothing more than a cold statue with her arms crossed and back stiff. There are a few other of the major department heads, all the same way. Some of them have worried eyes peaking through, but most conceal their unease, pretending like this doesn’t effect them.  _But maybe, after seeing so many killed in this room, it doesn’t anymore._

Shaw is strapped down to a white bed, metal restraints biting at her skin, and she closes her eyes against the far too bright light directed straight in her eyes. She pushes her chin to her chest, peeling her eyes open to see something- anything. She can feel her heart picking up in spite of herself, in spite of never feeling fear. Out of all the times she’s come near to death, this is by far the closest, and her body knows it. Doctors flood the room, faces masked by dark goggles and blue masks, fashioned in white coats and latex gloves.

In the other room- only a window away- Shaw watches someone new walk in, and the crowd parts for him. He is old, wrinkled with gray hair and speckled skin, but his eyes are crisp and young. He has an air of importance, all of you not even worth a third of him, and Shaw senses exactly who he is. _He must be Greer; president of Samaritan_. Shaw feels her head forced forward and a brace clamps over her neck, barely loose enough to breathe.

She feels the cold pinch of a needle in her arm; although her head can’t turn to look, she knows this is it.  _Everything is over. I’ve been brought here for one thing, and one thing only._  Her throat begins to close, and her vision blurs with blackness. A static noise overcomes her ears like an old, broken TV, and a liquid fills her eyes and her nose and her mouth. It’s like being submerged in water, only she can breathe it in and breathe it out. Her head feels like lead, her hands like bricks, and she finds herself slipping.

_I’m here to die._

_____\ If Your Number’s Up /_____

And the person in Sameen Shaw did die- but only the person.

Heart and soul, ferocity and personality remained. But she was a new something entirely.

And this something is running. Running at fifty miles per hour in the dark, sounds of the asylum’s warning sirens and the sharp barking of vicious dogs fading with each agile stride. The night is pitch black, stars hidden behind the thick canopy of trees, and her bare feet tear by sharp twigs, forearms bleeding from thorn-ridden shrubbery and sharp bark; lab coat sleeves falling to shreds. Still, she runs.

Everything is different, the world feeling reborn in her eyes. Her wide, fierce eyes with pupils like ellipses, brown color traded in for an amber that shimmers with golden flecks in the slightest light. Every tree and log, each stone and leaf is startlingly crisp in her vision, no harder to see than in daylight. The sounds are deafening. Each light step she takes is an explosion of dry leaves crunching and a sonic boom of twigs cracking in two. Her breath is screaming in her ears, although it is not at all labored. On the contrary, she’s not even breaking a sweat. She feels empowered- slim body made of rippling muscles- as she dashes through the wilderness. It feels comforting- almost.

She comes to a clearing in the dense woods, hard ground giving away to soft sand, and she sees the sparkling of water in the moon’s white light. It’s a large, swirling mass of unmistakable doom. Large branches are sucked under in the current, and white froth rises like sharp teeth, ready to devour her entirely. But she can’t stop, can’t slow down. It seems at least fifteen feet across, and black as night. Steeling her stomach against the prickling doubt within, she lets instinct overcome her. A new instinct, one implanted- one wild.

She sprints to the water’s edge before giving a hard push against the ground, jumping straight out with the power and grace of a wild feline, black hair shining silver against the moon’s white wash. Her feet pedal midair, and soon she comes crashing, crashing down. Her heels lap the cold water, but the rest of her lands on dry ground. Her fingers graze the sand as she almost falls, but she continues without a break. Running, always running.

Hearing the crack of a gun, she turns her head back to look. A figure emerges from the thick forest, skidding to a halt at the water’s edge. Vision sharper than ever before, Shaw can see every detail of his face. The fear in his startlingly beautiful eyes. He looks to the water with dread, wind rustling the thin layer of plumage on his bare arms.

 _Wait, what?_  Shaw comes to a speedy halt, pressing her chest to a tree as she peeks her head around the trunk, mesmerized. Blinking a few times, she sees her eyes were not lying. And, as another crack fires off closer still, she watches with widening eyes as he unfolds large, falcon-brown wings. Shaw can hear him- hear his stuttering heart and rabid breath from yards away- and watches as he jumps to the sky. He is clumsy, dropping to his knees in the water as his wings flap in unpracticed dis-unison. However, he starts to rise.

“ _POP! PAH-POP!_ ” The moon-lit sky explodes with red, and the winged man falls from the air, sinking into the murky water, few stray feathers floating gently down before being consumed by the current. Even in the poor light, Shaw can see a thick trail of crimson in the water, and red flecks on the sandy shore. The smell of blood is strong as whisky in her nostrils. She runs.

She runs until the break of day, where she finds a large gathering of people with horse trailers. She slows to a stop, smoothing down her now cruddy and tattered hospital shirt. Her bare feet travel soundlessly over the short-cut grass, and her eyes shimmer in the new light.

“ _Hey_! What are you doing out of your cage?!” A man screams at her, stalking forward. His skin is fat and red, white beard bouncing about on his stout, angry face. His fist strangles the air as he stalks forward, cane in hand. “Get  _back_!” He yells, prodding at her with the cane. She gives him a disgusted sneer, then grabs the end, ripping it from his hand. Her nails, seeming to grow out before her eyes, dig into the wood like it is play dough, and she cracks him upside the head with it.

He falls, temple sprouting blood, and he cries out. A moment later, hands grab her from behind, at least six or seven pair, and she is drug to one of the horse trailers. A deadbolt is unlatched, and she is quickly tossed in. Her palms hit scratchy hay, while her head smacks thickly into something far more squishy. It grunts, and she recoils. The door slams shut, leaving nothing more than a small barred window to filter in light.

Shaw stands, rubbing her palms down the fronts of her hospital shorts, then wraps her hands around the bars. She pulls them with all her strength, yet they won’t budge.

“Tried that already.” She lets go instantly, turning and peering into the pitch black. Even with her heightened vision, the mystery voice is impossible to see. “I’m Grice.” The voice is finally met by a face as he steps into the soft light the window lets in.

His pupils are slits, rimmed with thick green irises. They are held wide, as if they’ve never once blinked, and they look each other over quizzically. Shaw takes in his otherwise human face, but sees soon enough as smooth skin blends into silvery emerald scales down his neck, filing down his arms and filtering back into skin at the back of his hands. Everything about him moves in a wave, head always bobbing back and forth with those larger-than-life eyes. He grins, revealing two sharp fangs, and Shaw takes a step back into the trailer wall, legs crouching into a predatorial stance, nails seeming to unsheathe as they grow out once more, and she bares her own, razor-like teeth.

“Calm down,” he tells her soothingly, his tone nearly mesmerizing. “You’re among friends.” His ’s’ is more of a hiss, as he gestures behind him. As Shaw’s eyes begin to adjust, she sees the silhouettes of three others standing, crowding closer to Grice. It seemed impossible, fitting five people into a space made for no more than two Mustangs.

One of the shadows, maybe two thirds of Shaw’s height, with curls of hair falling down to her shoulders, pushes past Grice and into the now orange light. Shaw can feel a twinge of something- something like sadness- hit her from somewhere small and deep down inside.

_It’s a child._

“My name’s Gen,” she says, sticking out a hand. Shaw, nails retracting, shakes it wearily, giving the young girl a distrusting look-over. “What are you paired with?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Shaw asks, not understanding the question, and Gen purses her lip with narrowed eyes.

“I’m a parrot,” she says proudly.

“That doesn’tmake any sense,” Shaw tells her flatly.

“That doesn’tmake any sense,” her own voice echoes back into her ears, and Shaw’s jaw nearly drops. Gen giggles girlishly, then pushes out wings. They only unfurl slightly, given their cramped state, but it is enough for Shaw to take in the rainbow of colors splashed onto large feathers.

“Holy shit,” Shaw breathes out.

“Holy shit,” her voice trills back, and Shaw gives Gen a condescending glare.

“Stop that,” she commands, and the girl laughs once more, tucking her wings away.

“So what are you?” She persists, and Shaw gives her an uninterested shrug.

“I’d say a cat,” Grice responds, eyes studying Shaw with great interest. “Lynx, perhaps?”

Shaw hears Dr. O'Hara’s voice in her mind. “A uh, a felis concolor.”

“So, you’re a  _puma_ ,” a woman’s voice breaks through the darkness to Grice’s other side. “Impressive.”

“And who are you?” Shaw asks the dark silhouette.

“Joss, but you can call me Carter.” She sticks out a hand, and Shaw can see webbed fingers in the light. She takes it carefully, giving it a firm shake.

“Shaw,” Shaw replies, seeing nothing more than Carter’s spherical eyes in the shadows. “Why are you all here?”

“The same reason you are,” Gen replies amiably.

Shaw thinks back to the insane asylum. She recalls the breach in security, someone escaping. A person not unlike a mouse with his small frame and large ears running down the hallway, nimble fingers pushing the latches across on every cage in his reach, screaming in a high pitched voice, _‘Get out! Get out!_ ’ Shaw’d leapt on the opportunity, flicking locks on her own way as she followed the swarming mass of bodies running aimlessly about. She remembers the guards firing shots into the crowd, all of them like fish in a large barrel. She’d slipped away, closing a door behind her to hide- _to think_. There, she found Dr. O'Hara sitting before a television screen. Upon seeing her, he smiled.

 _‘5607, what a pleasant surprise,_ ’ he’d said, standing. She could hear the jingling of keys like church chimes in her ear, and grinned.

 _'I think you were right,’_  she told him with a sly tone in her voice, and saw a flicker of fear in his soft eyes.

 _'About?’_  He’d asked, voice startlingly calm. Shaw lunged forward with inhuman speed, pinning him to the wall. In one, swift movement, she’d taken his jacket, un-clipped his keys, and thrown him to the table. She heard a crunch, but never turned around to see what it was. Sliding on the jacket, she said one last word.

_'Thanks.’_

Shaw shakes her head free of the memory, then gives Gen and even look. “I highly doubt that.”

“It’s time!” A voice reaches Shaw’s ears from outside the trailer.

“It’s time!” Another voice shouts, this time closer. On and on, more voices shout the words, and the screeching of metal on metal is deafening in Shaw’s ears. Their door screams Bloody Mary as it is pried open, and the high sun momentarily blinds the group.

In that moment of weakness, catch poles are slung over Shaw’s neck- three specifically- and large cuffs are clamped around her wrists. Instantly, she feels her body jerked down, the weight of the restraints morbidly oppressing. She is pulled from the muggy trailer, down a makeshift ramp, and into the cool New York air. Looking around in daylight, Shaw sees the space transformed. They are on a plot of grass backed up to trees but greeting large buildings. An industrial empire growing before her eyes.

She is tugged jerkily along, pushed to file in line amongst other Defiants, all marching off to a large, gray building. Where Shaw would have needed to squint before, the words are crisp in her newly acquired eyes.

Half-Breed Sale! May 30th!

And then, in smaller font just below:

All bids are final

Shaw feels a weight shift sickeningly in the pit of her stomach, and she can feel her feet begging to turn the other way and run.

_We’re being sold._

_____\ We’ll Find You /_____

“Next up we have a spritely young half-breed. At age 12, its genetics have been infused with that of a parrot. Along with luxurious wings that span eight feet in diameter, it has the incredible ability of mimicking any sound it hears.”

 _It, it, it,_  Shaw thinks angrily, feeling her blood begin to boil. From behind the stage, she can see Gen’s auburn curls bouncing as she rocks from foot to foot, wings outstretched in a beautiful wash of color. A man holds her at either shoulder, both dressed in sharp suits and ear wigs. The auctioneer stands behind a podium, top hat concealing snow white hair, and he holds a gavel in his meaty hands.

“Opening bid at five thousand dollars. Begin.”

Instantly, hands fly and voices shout, and the auctioneer begins a proud prattle, number rising and rising to astronomical digits.

Shaw, peering around the stage, takes in the multitudes of people, all dressed formally with stoic expressions. Her eyes scan the men and women briefly, repulsed at the lot of them. She feels her claws sliding out, ready to slice them all into Lucky One Ribbons.

“Sold to the man in the suit for twenty-five thousand!” The gavel slams, and the people murmur in the crowd with electrical excitement. Shaw, closing her eyes, can pick out individual voices at will.

“That lucky bastard,” says one.

“If you’d just let me go  _five higher_ ,” fumes someone else.

“Too much money for a  _bird_ , if you ask me,” huffs another, and Shaw opens her eyes, their fury hot and terrifying. She watches as Gen is manhandled from the stage, taken to a far corner of the room, and stood before a table. Shaw, being shoved forward in line, cranes her neck back to watch the girl, to find the man who bought her.

A man with salt-and-pepper hair stops before the table, gray suit crisp and clean. His eyes are an icy blue, and his mouth is unsmiling. Mechanically, he lifts up a wad of green, and a plastic woman at the table takes it, counts it, and stows it away. She gives the men a nod, and they release Gen roughly.

Shaw studies the man’s face, takes in every detail. Sharp jaw and razor cheekbones, high brow and short hair.  _When I get my hands on him…_

“Name please?” The woman at the table asks, fingers hovering over her keyboard.

“John Reese,” he answers without emotion. He brings his hand to Gen’s shoulder, and guides her from the building.

_I’m coming for you John Reese._

Suddenly, Shaw is shoved forward, and her shins scrape painfully across hard wood steps, and she falls, chained hands doing little to protect her face. Two hands envelope her arms on either side, hoisting her up and onto the stage. She stands, frozen with lights blinding her, and struggles to swallow down her jumping heart. The lights, the people, the restraints- it all reminds her of that dreaded room.

“This here is a half-breed of epic proportions. Skillfully crafted, DNA of a puma has been fused into its genes, giving it astonishing speed and strength. It has incredible strength an-”

“ _She_.” The room falls silent at her voice, all eyes and open mouths. No one ever thought the pet could speak. The auctioneer swallows hard, turning his ashen face back to the crowd. Shaw looks out at them, hoping for her icy stare to cripple each of their hearts, when her eyes stop unexpectedly.

A woman is smiling at her.

Her brown hair falls in waves about her face, chocolate eyes bright and inquisitive as she smiles a dazzling grin Shaw’s way. Shaw feels a weird floating in her stomach, enough to make her hurl with nerves. Looking at this person, it almost gives her a faith back in humanity.  _Keyword almost._

“I-uh and uh- strength and incredible eyesight. Hearing is uh- remarkable… Opening bid ten thousand. Begin.”

Hands reach up like sinners out of Hell, stretching to escape, to be picked up and carried off. Shaw’s eyes follow them all like a rigorous tennis match, but her gaze is always darting back to that woman. Her hand is always, always up.

The numbers grow to heights that would tower over any sky scraper, and slowly, hands become less and less common.

“37,500 going once.. Twice… Sold to the pretty woman in the third row!” The gavel hits, and it’s official.

Before Shaw knows it, her feet are dragging against the ground as the two men pull her from the stage, down the staircase, and shove her into the table. Her eyes are sharp as broken glass, and her claws emerge, sharp ends digging into the wood. The clicking of heels greets Shaw’s ears, and a moment later, that woman from before emerges. She is even more beautiful close up, every feature magnified in Shaw’s sight, and she finds herself rooted in place.

She barely looks at Shaw for a second, but Shaw can feel her high awareness of her presence, and Shaw herself grows anxious to know about this stranger.

“Name please?” The woman at the desk asks in the same, apathetic tone.

“Root.” With that, she puts her hands around either of Shaw’s shoulders, steering her off. Her fingers are like electrodes on Shaw’s skin, shocking her straight to the bone. They walk back out into the cool air, and Shaw takes in a deep breath, relieved to be out of the stifling building. A small, black car’s headlights blink, door-locks clicking unlocked, and Root politely opens the passenger door, standing to the side for her to step in. Shaw, with a sneer, hunkers down in the seat, eyes in slits with a growl at the ready in her throat. Root steps into the driver seat beside her, closing the door and sits in silence. For a moment, the two women stare out of the windshield, the only sounds their silent breaths and beating hearts. Finally, Root speaks.

“There’s a knife in the glove compartment. You can cut yourself loo-”

Shaw throws herself to the side, body leaning heavily across the woman, fingers held around her neck and thumbs pressed to the hollow at its center.

“ _Thanks_ ,” Shaw says with the voice of a snake, cruel purr rolling in her words. “But  _these_ will do just fine.” On cue, the claws of her thumbs outstretch, dagger-like edges pressing into Root’s soft skin. She merely gives a choked laugh. The reaction takes Shaw by surprise, and she moves back slightly. “Who are you,” Shaw demands.

“I’ll explain everything when we get back,” Root tells her with a devilish smirk on her face, and Shaw finally lets the growl escape her lips.

“ _Now_ ,” she roars, and Root’s eyes light.

“There is a God among us, and She was born fourteen years ago,” she says cryptically, and Shaw laughs.

“I know women like to shave some years off their life,” Shaw says dangerously. “But that’s a little  _much_ for you, don’t you think?”

“Not  _me_ ,” Root says in a dumbed-down manner. Her eyes flitter across the street. “Her.” Shaw, curious, releases her grip on Root’s throat, turning her head towards the street. There is nothing but a sidewalk, a telephone pole, and a security camera.

“The  _camera_?” Shaw asks disbelievingly, sitting back in her seat. Root gives her a condescending look.

“You’re the product of stubbornness and genetic experimentation,” she says, receiving a contemptuous side glance; yet she continues. “Do you  _really_ think an AI is that far out of possibility?”

“Wait, an  _AI_? Like, a super computer,” Shaw asks, her prior distrust melting into curiosity. Root gives her another smile, and it sends a flutter tumbling within Shaw.

“Like I said,” she tells Shaw, pulling the car into drive, “I’ll explain everything when we get back.”

______\ Um… Meow? /______

Shaw is taken to a cozy apartment in the thicker areas of Manhattan, a place where anyone-  _Defiant or not_ \- could blend seamlessly without detection. Upon entering the residence, she finds it simply furnished, a large sofa set out under a wide window, sunlight spilling into the spacious room. Root, closing the door, slips off into another room, all the while Shaw searches around, every feline sense coming to life within her.

Every shape and fabric pattern is remarkably crisp, her eyes able to pick out each individual strand of the carpeted floor, see each small crease in the seat covers like small mountains and valleys. She is overwhelmed with smells; the soft aroma of a candle lit earlier in the day, the enticing smell of food in cabinets, and- above all else- a sharp fragrance she can’t quite place. It is a mixture of floral perfume and of something more grounded, and Shaw can’t hide her liking of it. It grows around her, until Shaw realizes the source itself is approaching.  _Root._

“I brought you out some clothes,” she says warmly, as if Shaw is just a neighbor dropping my. Shaw takes the clothes tentatively, stepping behind a nearby wall to change. The soft fabric of a sweater is bliss on her skin, and the overly long sweatpants are another heaven entirely. Stepping back into the room, she shakes out her hair, dark strands stretching out in a storm before coming back together around her face. Her dirt-streaked face. She feels another foreign instinct welling up in her, the sudden urge to lick the back of her hand. She decides with a sternness that it is best to ignore some aspects of her new counterparts.

Shaw, wanting more than anything now to show this woman she is in no way compliant, stalks over to the couch, stretching out in the warmth of the sun, and runs her sharp claws across the soft fabric. Root doesn’t seem to mind, but on the contrary, grins.

“I’m glad you’re making yourself at home here,” she says, and Shaw instantly seizes up.

“I’m  _not_ ,” she spits, rising to a seated position. “And I  _won’t_ be staying for long.”

“No?” Root asks, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. _Must suck to spend over 35,000 on a runaway cat_ , Shaw steams, but keeps her composure.

“I have a kid to find,” Shaw says, and Root’s eyes flare with a smug curiosity. “ _Not_ mine,” Shaw adds, and the light dies out. “She’s with a guy by the name of John Reese.”

Root’s lips curl up in a toothy smile. “Well, good, he’ll be here shortly.” Shaw’s eyebrows raise, and she picks her way back towards Root on delicate feet. The closer Shaw gets, the faster she can hear Root’s heart beat.  _Is she frightened by me?_ Shaw thinks over the possibility. _Good._

“After I get the kid, I’m leaving,” Shaw tells her. “I’m not your  _pet_.”

“It says so on the paper,” Root says, laughing at the joke. More seriously now, she gives Shaw an even look. “I know. And I’m not asking you to be. But I have some questions for you myself.”

“ _Like_..?”

Root sits on the couch, hand atop her legs, and sighs. Suddenly, hit with a rush of fatigue, Shaw resolves to sitting at her side, making sure to stay far off. Root looks to her with open eyes, a sort of awe in them at seeing Shaw. Shaw feels herself heating under the gaze, and closes herself off, tucking her feet up on the couch.

“Like, how did you wind up in a sale?” Shaw thinks over the question; how to tell this woman without truly letting her in. Finally, she shrugs.

“Escaped.” Root nods, an understanding washing over her.

“That explains it,” she says to herself, but Shaw picks it up with incredible ease.

“Explains what?”

“Why someone of your-” Root falters, looking Shaw over, “your abilities would find your way into a half-breed sale. It’s for the undesirables.”

“And?”

“And…” Root trails off, a deep blush painting her cheeks. “You’re desirable.” Shaw can feel her own body catching fire, face heating up at the words.  _Oh._  “They take Defiants who have a good chance, and they train them to fight,” Root fires off quickly, wanting to pass by her previous comment. “A new breed of warriors- agents.”

“Oh  _please_ ,” Shaw says indignantly. “Like I would  _fight_ for them.”

“They’d kill you if you didn’t,” Root warns, and Shaw only chuckles.

“Let them try.”

“You're not the big cat they told you you are, Sweetie.”

Shaw’s head snaps to attention, eyes narrowing to deadly slits and her lips pull in a snarl. “ _Don’t_ call me that.” Root smirks playfully, eyes amused.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Sameen Shaw.” Root’s smirk turns into a genuine smile at that, as if the name unlocked a door she’d been trying to open for decades. Shaw shifts almost uncomfortably.

“So uh, what’s up with your little robot friend taking you to auctions,” Shaw mumbles out, and Root leans back against the sofa.

“We go, looking for people that can help us- strong and agile and spiteful towards the Lucky Ones- but we’ve only found you so far. We also look for children, we send them underground to safer places.” Shaw nods, growing to like this woman- against her will.

She feels her eyelids growing far too heavy to hold up, and lets them close. The sun is warm on her back, heat soaking through her borrowed clothes that smell unmistakably like Root, and she allows herself to curl up on the sofa. Her hair fans out around her head in a dark halo, head closer to Root and feet pressed against the arm rest. She feels a presence coming closer to her head, and tightens.

“Don’t you freaking  _dare_ pet me,” Shaw spits out, and the presence- a hand- stops just before Shaw’s ear.

“I wasn’t going to,” Root says, voice barely more than a whisper as she brings her fingers delicately to Shaw’s temple, brushing a few stray locks of hair behind Shaw’s ear. “I just want to be able to see your face.”

Shaw’s tongue rolls over her teeth, but she doesn’t swat her hand away, nor rip her throat out with sharp claws. “If you touch me again,” Shaw warns in a drowsy state, “I will  _end_ you.”

I soft laugh bubbles off of Root’s lips. “You can end me all you want.”

_____\ Person of Interest /_____

When Shaw awakens, the room is full. There is a man with spiky hair and black-rimmed glasses sitting in a chair across from her, fingers clicking in an almost constant hum on the keyboard. To his right, a stocky man with curly hair sits with one leg crossed over the other, a golden badge hanging loosely behind a blazer.  _NYPD_. Her eyes travel back to the other side, gaze falling upon the man from the auction. John Reese. She brings her eyes to a final sweep around the room, and sees Gen no where in sight.

There is a shift in weight by her head, and Shaw’s eyes flicker upwards, where she sees Root, still sitting in the same place although, by the way the sunlight has receded from the room, Shaw knows it’s been hours.

“Where’s Gen?” Shaw asks, sitting. She stretches out her sleep ridden muscles, back arching and fingers pawing at the table in front of her, eyes closed tight. When she opens them, she sees three pair of men’s eyes watching her intently, and instantly she becomes defensive, drawing her arms back and puffing out her chest in predatorial instinct. Looking to her side from the corner of her feline eyes, she sees Root smiling at her affectionately, eyes doting and body language relaxed, as if she feels comfortable-  _safe even_ \- in Shaw’s presence.  _Insanity will do that to a person_ , Shaw quips, although doesn’t truly mean it.

“She’s safe,” Reese informs her in a calm, calculated tone, and Shaw’s cold eyes scan him irritably.

“Then why are  _you_ here,” Shaw sneers, and John’s mouth turns up in an amused smirk.

“Because  _we_ needed to meet up and  _Root_ didn’t want to wake you,” he says in a tone reeking of softness and humor. It basically screams _'talk it over with your girlfriend.’_  Shaw can feel her sharp teeth grinding, and her stomach rumbles.  _How long has it been since I’ve eaten?_  She wonders, hearing another wail from her stomach. Root stands, headed for her kitchen, leaving Shaw alone with the men. She can feel her claws unsheathing, ready to stripe them at a single misstep.

“So, what’d you think of the Met’s game last night?” The curly-haired one asks, and John shrugs his shoulders.

“It was alright.”

“ _Alright_?!” He belts. “It was a  _disaster_!”

“Detective, Fusco, if you could please calm down,” the one in glasses says calmly, and Fusco shuts his angered mouth. “I’ve almost got our new phone network up and running. Your phone please.” Fusco reluctantly passes it over as Root sets down a sandwich before Shaw, and the smell of ham and cheese hits her with an intoxicating force. Like a starved lion, she descends upon the food, ripping it to shreds before there eyes. Root reclaims her seat on the couch, this time much closer to Shaw than before. She sits with one leg up on the sofa, keeping herself angled towards Shaw entirely.

Shaw looks up from the plate, mouth still full, and sees Root’s grin growing wider.

“ _What_ ,” Shaw demands, trying not to spray crumbs, and she swallows the bite harshly, all the while Root shakes her head, eyes seemingly lost in Shaw’s.

“Yo, googly eyes, Glasses needs your phone.” Without taking her gaze from Shaw’s, Root fumbles for her pocket, then hands it out over the table, waiting for someone to take it. Shaw can feel the intensity of Root’s gaze, and the feline part of her feels a threat rising in her stomach forcing her to stare back, hold her ground. Soon, Shaw’s hearing seems to fizz out, leaving nothing but an iron stare and defiant will.

“Either get a room or let’s get going.” John’s voice breaks the stare, as Root looks over at him, small smile on her pink lips. “I’ll drive Harold down to the station- Lionel needs to make good cover for work- and we need you to work on a number.”

“A number?” Shaw asks, eyes cast between John and Root. John gives Root a look.

“What were you  _doing_ all this time that she doesn’t  _know_?” He asks her, a hint of play in his voice, and Root’s eyes narrow in good nature.

“She was  _sleeping_.”

“She can sure take a good cat nap,” John quips, and Shaw can feel her teeth baring at the remark, and he walks out with a final smirk her way. All of the men escape through the front door, leaving nothing but Shaw, and Root, and her still overpowering scent.

“What number?” Shaw asks once more, and Root looks away, across the table before meeting Shaw’s eye.

“She gives us numbers. They filter back to people and we have to keep them safe.”

“Safe from what?” Root smiles a dangerous smile, eyes catching fire in a way Shaw had yet to see, and it sets off a wild storm in her heart.

“Turned Defiants. Just like  _you_.” The words roll off her tongue so easily, but their weight lets them crash through the floor. “And who better to pick them out then one of their own?” Shaw gives a sliver of a smile at that, seeing the mechanics finally working behind the machine. “So…” Root asks seriously. “Are you in?”

Shaw looks this woman over. A person she’s known for less than a day. A woman that had bought her soul and set it free; who seemed so easy to read, but was actually the most difficult tome of all. A woman with a beautiful face and a charming personality to match. Shaw could leave, she knew. She could walk out that door and never look back, and this woman across from her wouldn’t do a thing to stop it. She looks into Root’s eyes, dark and mysterious, but soft as they look at Shaw, filled with a kindness and compassion Shaw couldn’t quite place. In all her years, Shaw’d felt very few emotions, but more of them seemed to surface now, in this one moment, than all of those times combined. She thinks of freedom and of escape.  _But escape from what?_  Shaw finds a wretched, pitted feeling at the thought of leaving, and a warm, purposeful content at sticking around. Remaining here, with this group of vigilantes- with this enigma named Root. Shaw sees Root’s smile, the light in her eyes. She hears a noise, and her blood runs cold.

_I’m purring._

Shaw, coughing, gets the noise to stop, but not before Root’s committed the sound and the moment to memory. Trying to act as official as possible, but too overcome with anticipation and vengeance to keep things businesslike, Shaw gives a hearty, Cheshire Cat smile.

“I’m in.”


End file.
